Little Janie Reed
by Praxid
Summary: In the weeks before the world fell apart, Daryl made a friend. The nightmare began with her. Note: this is NOT a Daryl/OC fic, though I now realize the title may give that impression.
1. Two Weeks Before

_Two Weeks Before_:

Merle was in a bad mood.

He was sprawled on the couch just as he'd fallen there—arms and legs all over the place. His feet were dangling over the worn arm of the sofa. He'd stained the torn fabric with his muddy boots, and was tapping at the air nervously with the soles while he stared at the ceiling. There was a plastic bag of something on his chest. As Daryl stood looking out from his bedroom doorway, he couldn't tell what exactly he had in it.

It was hard to get used to Merle again, since he'd been out on parole. Their daddy died last year, so it was just the two of them. Merle laughed the one time he said it, but it was like there was a ghost in the house. In the creaking walls. The old man's presence echoed off the bare floorboards at night. His old skin mags turned up rumpled under the chair cushions. An empty pack of his Winstons still perched on top of the broken television, covered with dust. His boots were tumbled on their sides by the doorway. As if he'd come back in any minute, but never did.

So when Merle got caught with one of those plastic bags in his coat, and his luck with the fine Georgia legal system ran out, it was just Daryl in the house. It had seemed empty. Empty, but quiet—even peaceful.

In the end, it was a good time. He'd done a fair number of odd jobs around town, and spent long days roaming the woods. He tracked a very fine buck— followed the thing for a whole weekend before bagging it and heading home. The rack, still on the bleached skull, hung from a nail on the porch. He was proud of that buck.

And he was able to get some more steady work, and he'd made some cash, which he kept in a box under his bed. Merle didn't know about that money. It was safe. Sometimes he thought of what he might do with it. Get the fuck out of town and never look back. Get a bike of his own. Fix it up how he wanted. Head out somewhere.

He could go see the ocean.

If he did take that box out from under his bed—if he walked out the door and took off into town, he wouldn't have to stop there. He could just keep on going. And wouldn't have to tell Merle where he ended up.

But for now, he wasn't going anywhere. From the door, he stood still, watching his brother's face. Merle was far, far away. Bottles strewn everywhere, the plastic bag rumpled on his chest. He stared at the ceiling like he could read something there.

If Daryl was quiet, he might be able to get around him and out of the house before Merle came to himself—sparing them both a considerable headache. He stepped out from the door. Immediately, Merle stirred, then bellowed out at the ceiling.

"Little brother!"

Daryl didn't look at him. He just kept walking.

"DARYL!"

He walked by fast, ignored him. Pushed the screen door open. The warm spring air hit him all at once, and the smell of the grass.

He set out fast, didn't want to deal with Merle's shit for once. He crossed the narrow dirt road, with the tall grass crowding down the middle. The ruts of the tires were embedded in the dust. He pushed through the stand of mountain laurels at the far side—off near the Tucker place—their only neighbors on a dead-end dirt road.

The Tuckers were fighting. Again. He could hear the shouts over the sound of the television, turned up high to cover it. As if the Dixons would judge.

He hesitated a moment, but, in the end, he kept going. It was their own damn business and none of his. Something broke against a wall inside the doublewide as he pushed through the dense foliage.

The branches closed behind him like a curtain.

Just like that, he was in the woods. It surrounded him in an instant, and the sounds of the trucks from the main road hushed. The tv blaring out from the Tucker's grew quiet. It was in the background. It wasn't important anymore. All of that out on the street was gone.

Before he knew it, he was up in the giant old maple on the crest of the slope. The wide leaves encircled him where he perched, up high in the branches. They filtered the afternoon light—late and long and warm on his skin. He was tense. He clung to the branches with both arms, crouched there forty feet above the ground.

He was always good at climbing trees. And this was one of his favorites—the one he liked to climb when he was twelve. He'd carved a girl's name in it once. Just to see it written there in the living bark. But he scraped it away after. No point in being a pussy.

He looked over his shoulder, checking one more time to make sure Merle hadn't followed him. It was stupid. Merle was too high to stand up. But if he saw, he'd laugh pretty damn hard to see his little brother hiding up here like a girl. And Daryl knew how it'd go. He'd try to knock Merle's teeth in, and they would just keep rolling until they were both a bloody mess on the forest floor.

But Daryl knew he'd have to come down eventually, like when he was a kid. But for now, he listened to a brown thrasher whistling in the bushes below. He'd go hunting tomorrow. Spend the whole day outside from the first light. If he was lucky, he wouldn't see another person until he had to go home again. He only really felt alright when he was alone.

A slamming door broke him out of his daydreaming. His head darted in that direction. A scream pierced the quiet. The brown thrasher stopped midsong.

Tears. Hard laughter. A scuffle.

"Yeah bitch, you better run!"

Billy Tucker's voice. Merle's buddy—one of a group of guys whose nighttime activities you'd best not ask about.

Billy married little Janie Reed—now Janie Tucker. She was a good ten years younger than Daryl—and even younger than the rest of the crowd. She'd been the girl with the pigtails who followed her big brothers home from grade school, who ended up running with the bad boys out by the train tracks when she was a couple years older. He wasn't sure, but Daryl thought she might have carried on with Merle a little one summer, years back before she'd quit high school. She and Billy moved into the old doublewide last year, right around when Daryl's old man died. He first heard it from Merle that she was pregnant. Now it was obvious to anyone who looked at her.

The branches shook as someone else pushed through them. It was little Janie, in tears, with a laurel leaf caught in her tangled hair.

She struggled through, looking behind her to make sure he wasn't following. But Billy was still at home. Probably gone back inside. And then the television cut out into silence, proving it.

She collapsed on the soft grass, right at the forest edge. He could see her clearly from his perch. She was gasping for air with heavy sobs, clutching her arms around herself in a desperate hug. Her belly was large under her yellow sundress.

"Oh Jesus," she said, then fell silent. He felt strange watching her, but couldn't turn away. He clung tight to the tree branches and watched her cry.

"Oh Jesus…"

She was praying. His stomach churned, the moment was broken, and he looked away fast. He didn't want to see this. But he could still hear.

"Jesus, tell me. There's got to be some way out of here."

The thrasher started to sing again.

* * *

><p>It was a good half hour before she calmed herself. And she sat in the soft grass, picking at leaves. The sun went down, casting blue light over her pale arms. And he knew she was waiting as long as possible to go home.<p>

It was spring, but it got cold fast at night. It wouldn't be long. He waited for her to leave, so he could light down from his roost and head back home. He waited a long time.

Finally, she stood up, paced around on the moss. He noticed her feet were bare. Breathing deeply, she tightened her jaw and walked back through the laurels. Calmly, with straight shoulders. As if she'd be alright when she came out the other side.

After a good amount of time, he followed suit. His legs were stiff as he dropped to the ground. He'd been crouching up there for over two hours.

The evening was cool and quiet. The stars were coming out. He looked up at Orion, disappearing fast from the sky. Summer was coming.

Down the road, at the dead end, there was a light on in the old house. Merle was up.

As he opened the door, a bottle smashed against the wall to his left. Merle was up, and he was throwing things.

Merle had made it to the floor from the couch since the sun set. He was surrounded by empties. Their daddy's old transistor radio was playing in the background, ignored. It was a news bulletin.

"_Reports of mass rioting are coming in from the major metropolitan areas surrounding Boston and New York."_

They both ignored it. Had nothing to do with them.

"Don't come when you're called no more, bro. What you doin' with yourself all day? Didn't know better, I'd say you were up in that tree like when you were yay high,"

Merle gestured one-handed, turned, tried to sit up, and slumped back against the floor.

_As yet the cause of the unrest is unclear, but similar, uncomfirmed reports are emerging out of western Europe and northern Africa this evening."_

"Yeah bro. I'd say you were up there like you used to, cryin' out your tender feelings to the angels."

"Don't matter where I was," Daryl said, giving him a sidelong glance as he stepped over the broken glass and beer stained floorboards. Even by Dixon standards, the room was a mess. But he'd worry about that later. For now, he would barricade himself in his room and wait for Merle to dry out before putting things to rights.

He had to step over his brother to get to the door. And he reached out and clutched at his ankle.

"_If you are a resident of the affected areas of the northeast, stay calm. At this time the areas of disruption remain localized."_

"Where you goin'? Don't wanna spend any time with old Merle no more? It's a cold damn fucking reception after where I been the last six months."

"I'll sit with ya, Merle—in the mornin' when you're sensible."

"Nah, sit with me now, bro," he said, smiling a bright smile—like a child's—and looking up with glassy eyes.

"_If you are in an affected area, do not travel unless absolutely necessary. Under no circumstances should you move on foot. National guard units are containing the violence and advise you to stay inside your homes." _

Merle shrugged.

"We got things to catch up on."

It was then Daryl noticed the blood on Merle's hand, where he was holding him tight by the ankle. It was running from the palm out onto Daryl's jeans.

He crouched down, took Merle's hand by the wrist. It was full of broken glass.

"Fuck Merle, what you do to yourself this time?"

"Them bottles break easy, little brother. Like… like fucking butterfly wings."

Daryl sighed. When he was really far gone, he was prone to waxing poetical.

"You sit there a minute, I'll be back."

He got a few towels, ran some clean water. Found some peroxide in the back of the bathroom cabinet. His daddy's old swiss army knife had a pair of tweezers in the handle. He rummaged through drawers in the kitchen for it while listening to Merle sing under his breath.

_"We will interrupt further programming as information becomes available."_

On his way by, Daryl shut the radio off.

And so he knelt down next to his brother, and took his hand. He picked out the glass, bit by bit, and washed and wrapped the cuts. And his brother smiled at him and got quiet while he did it. And it struck Daryl all at once that Merle might have done this just so he would sit with him a while.

He pushed the thought away fast, like it was something dirty that wanted to bite him.

He sighed.

"Come on, Merle, let me put you in your bed for the night."

He pulled his brother up and let him lean heavily on his shoulder. He half-dragged him into his bedroom, pushing dirty clothes out the way with the door as it swung open.

Once Merle was on the bed, Daryl took off his boots, untying the laces. He was far away again, staring with reddened eyes into the wall—seeing something there no one else could see.

"Merle," Daryl called out, pulling off one boot. No response.

"Merle!"

Nothing. He couldn't hear. Daryl worked on the other set of laces. Stopped. Sighed. Started again. Then stopped again. He looked up at his brother, sprawled on the bed.

"I should leave you, you know," Daryl said.

"I saved money. I could do it this time. I wouldn't have to come back."

He waited. No response. He wrenched off the shoe, threw it against the wall.

"I'm not gonna be here, you hear me? I can do what I want now. God knows I'm old enough! You can't keep me here forever and I won't fucking let you!"

He darted to the head of the bed, leaned over Merle and grabbed him hard by the face. Pulled it close so they were eye to eye.

"You hear me Merle? I ain't gonna stay here! I don't belong to you! I can go any damn time I want!"

Merle's eyes focused, met his. He smiled. Reached up with his good hand. It looked like he was trying to touch Daryl's cheek. He missed. His hand glanced across his nose and landed on the mattress.

"Little brother," he murmured, his voice drifting away quietly as he fell into a deep sleep.


	2. The Week Before

_Thank you for the warm welcome, folks! I am just falling into this wonderful little fandom and I can't wait to get to know what people are writing about our favorite zombies. Please keep letting me know what you think- I could use the feedback! There will be four chapters, total. The story is almost finished, so I should get them out fast. Enjoy! -Praxid  
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><p><em>The Week Before:<em>

For a while, things were normal. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. Time drew out and out forever—dragging on like it always did. They were country, and for them, things happened slow.

He wandered the woods restlessly, covering miles of ground he knew by heart. He avoided town. Didn't want to see nobody. Nobody wanted to see him.

And he spent long hours at home, keeping an eye on Merle. Waiting, thinking. Making plans in his head, scrapping them, and starting again. Late at night, he poured over the old roadmaps, thinking of routes and destinations and making notes. Preparing carefully, in secret. Like a prison break. He'd be ready soon. On the road.

Free.

During the mornings that week, he sat on the porch with his carving knife and made a linked chain from a single piece of basswood. He did it while listening to the radio. He'd heard some very weird news reports here and there. Scattered and hazy in the details. About places that seemed so far away they could have been on the moon.

But here at home, things were normal. Ordinary. Sometimes it was so boring Daryl felt himself screaming inside his head. Then he'd look around, paranoid that he'd let it out by accident and Merle would hear him.

As for Merle, he seemed happy enough at first. He spent the week working on his bike in the afternoons and violating his parole in the evenings. Billy Tucker spent more time with him than at home. It was like old times.

The warm weather was starting in earnest, and Merle said it would be a fine time for him to go on some long rides—finally. It had been a long six months, after all.

One afternoon, on the first day of spring that really felt like summer, Daryl sat out on the grass beside him, and watched him tune up the bike. Just like he did when he was a kid and Merle seemed absolutely, insurmountably older than him. He didn't seem like that anymore.

But still, Daryl handed him tools from the old box and stared up at the sky by turns. There was a kestrel wheeling overhead on the updrafts, hunting for mice in the grass around the road.

It was a good day.

"Hey, hand me that other spoke wrench, bro," Merle said, staring intently at his work.

So he did.

As the kestrel circled above, he closed his eyes, face turned up into the sun. In that moment, bright, girlish laughter burst out, echoing down the road.

Janie.

It was musical, like the windchimes she'd strung up out on her front porch. He got up, stepped away from Merle, and walked a little down the street.

"Goin' already?" Merle said, a chuckle in his voice, as Daryl walked away, "Well alright then. Go on."

"But you remember to keep your prick in your damn pants. Chasin' tail at the neighbors is damned likely to get you shot."

Daryl ignored him. When he got to the doublewide, he hung back by the tall brush at the side of the road. He didn't want her to see him.

Janie and Billy were out on that porch with the windchimes—the one Billy'd put up for her when they moved in—sitting together under the shade of the corrugated plastic he'd fitted for a roof. She'd trained morning glories up the supports. The blooms were shrinking against the light of the day.

She was pitting cherries in a big bowl with a paring knife, feeding Billy a piece here and there, while he tried to steal extra from the bowl. He grabbed one whole and spit the pit into the yard—trying to hit the little juniper growing there. She was smiling at him—a pretty smile, Daryl thought. A full, bright smile that went all the way up to her grey eyes. Apparently all was forgiven.

He turned and silently walked away. For some reason he didn't understand, that sight of the two of them had dampened his spirits. The bright day cast over with anxious feelings for him. As he walked back home, they whirled around him, picking at his skin.

How long would that pretty smile last before they fought again? Before he made her cry. Before he hit her.

But it was more than that. He couldn't put his finger on it. But there was something… something in the air. Something was happening. Something he didn't have a name for. And that nagging voice—the one that told him to run as soon as he could—grew a little louder in the back of his mind.

That night, there was a mouse on one of the glue traps in the kitchen, staring up at them with its weird little black eyes. It flopped around, trying to pull itself free, shimmying the trap across the yellow linoleum.

Merle stepped on it, peeled it off his boot, and threw it out the backdoor into the underbrush.

* * *

><p>Over the next few days, Merle's mood shifted. He started getting angry for no reason. One night, he walked into the living room, punched Daryl hard in the gut, and walked away again without a word. One morning, he was pacing around the porch like a trapped animal—tension just oozing out of his skin so you could smell it. All at once he knocked the deer skull off its nail—the one Daryl'd hunted for days. Some of the points broke off the rack. Daryl heard the crash from inside, and was at the front door in an instant. Something snapped when he saw the fragments on the floor, and was on his brother a second later.<p>

"You fucking asshole _fuck_!" he shouted, incoherent with blind rage. He grabbed Merle by the shirt. He swung a hard left at his jaw, connecting before Merle could react.

He lost his balance, pushing his brother over with him. They topped over the rail into the weeds that crowded the unplanted flower beds. They rolled in the yard, kicking up dust. Merle gave as good as he got, and laughed the whole time.

Afterwards, with a bloody nose, Daryl lay there on the dirt catching his breath. As soon as it was over, they forgot the whole tussle. After all, it was so Goddamn boring the only thing to do was fight.

Even so, the next day, Daryl walked into town. He thought he'd found a bike he could buy in a newspaper listing. He checked up on that. Started thinking about what he'd pack if he left. What would fit in his bag. It wasn't big, but there wasn't much he'd really want to carry away with him, so that'd be ok.

That evening, Merle was calmer again. Didn't go out with his buddies. Instead, the two of them hiked out together to the creek and watched the sun set. Merle took off his boots—had his bare feet in the water. Tiny fish crowded around and nibbled on his toes.

* * *

><p>Three days before it happened, Daryl had spent the morning hunting squirrels in the woods. He had a row of them on his belt, his crossbow light on his shoulder. He'd miss these woods, when he left. It was coming together. It wouldn't be long.<p>

He walked past the giant maple tree, brushed his hand across the bark as he moved by. He'd never climb it again. He looked up at the branches a moment, lingered. Then let it go.

He headed over the soft grass at the edge of the woods, where little Janie had cried the week before. He wondered how she was doing. If she was still happy like when she was pitting the cherries. He tried to remember her smiling face in all its details. The blonde hair spilling in thin strands over her shoulders. The skin crinkling a little at the edge of the grey eyes. He wanted to take that memory away with him when he left.

He pushed through the laurel branches—the passage they all used in and out of the woods. It was like a door in and out of Narnia. He smiled to himself. Hadn't thought of that for ages. Since he was a kid and borrowed the books from the third grade teacher's little shelf. Since his daddy caught him with one, and beat the crap out of him for it. He had no business being soft—and no right to think he was better than his old man. And Daryl had been playing in the woods by himself, pretending he was in Narnia when he got lost that time, years ago. Ended up wandering in circles for days, not sure how to get out.

No one had noticed he was missing.

He stepped out onto the road, near the Tucker place, and headed back towards the dead end.

The wind had picked up, and he heard that same, girlish laughter from behind her house. He stopped. Without thinking, he moved towards it, quietly. Looked around the corner of the doublewide to watch her again.

She was taking down laundry, and the wind had caught up all around her. The bedsheets flew up and tangled around her arms and legs. Her marmalade tabby, Mr. Pibb—a girl cat whose name had never been explained to him—batted at the sheet with her paws.

Janie was wearing the white dress with the lace at the hem, and her dark blue keds with the white laces. White dress, white sheets. Dirty blonde hair tangling up in the wind. And the laughter and the windchimes ringing away out in the front yard.

He took it in for a moment, then turned to move away before she noticed him.

"Daryl!"

He froze.

"Daryl Dixon, come on over here," she said.

He turned around, uncertain and tense. Suspicious. They'd never spoken before, that he remembered. They knew each other in that way some people do in small towns—by osmosis. Lives lived parallel to each other, running along the same ruts, but never meeting in the middle.

She tilted her head to one side.

"S'allright, Daryl. Come on over. Help me fold."

He stepped out silently. His arms were stiff at his sides. He felt like he'd been caught in a trap.

"Uhm," he murmured, clearing his throat. He closed the distance between them tentatively, then reached out to pull the sheet away that wrapped around her. His crossbow shifted awkwardly on his shoulder and caught on the sheet. She smiled at him.

"Put that thing down first, Daryl."

"Oh—right, ok."

He did as he was told. As fast as he could. Clumsy.

When he was back at her side, he pulled the sheet away, and immediately noticed the massive bruise on her arm—bright and purple. In that stage right when it's starting to bloom in full. Blood pooling under the skin, where she'd been grabbed. Probably thrown against something. He held the sheet in place, frozen a moment before continuing on. He stepped away from her to unpin it from the washing line.

He sensed her watching him. She knew he'd seen it. He couldn't really have missed it if he'd tried.

"So… uhm, you take one side, right?"

She laughed that bright, girlish laugh again. He could tell she was relieved he hadn't said anything.

"What, you never folded somethin' before?"

He didn't answer. She took the side he wasn't holding, and they walked towards each other, halving the sheet. She took the folded ends, and stepped away from him again. And repeated the motion. He made sure not to touch her when he took his end. And they folded, turned, and folded again. It was like a dance.

They finished the sheet, and she laid it in the basket beside them. Mr. Pibb rubbed up against her leg and she crouched down to scratch her ears. And she pulled off another sheet for them to work on, together.

They worked through the laundry. When they got to the smaller stuff, he just stopped and watched her fold. They didn't say much. It was quiet. He started to feel ok, even though he was standing right next to her. He felt the tension in his shoulders easing. He liked it here in her backyard.

Next, she took a pillowcase off the line. It had little pink flowers on it. She looked at it a moment, then looked up at him gravely. Hesitated, then spoke quietly.

"You know he drowned her kittens in the creek last year? Put 'em in a pillowcase."

She paused.

"The other one in this set."

He found himself moving towards her before he realized what he was doing. His hand was on her wrist. Firm but gentle, he pulled her arm forward, looking at the bruise. Then straight at her.

"What you doin' with a guy like that? Why don't you get out?"

He pulled in closer, frustrated, upset.

"Janie—just think a minute. I mean, you got a baby comin', for Chrissakes."

She wrenched her arm away from him and looked at him hard eyes.

"I know what I've got comin' without you tellin' me. Don't you _dare_ tell me!"

She threw the pillowcase in the basket in a rumpled wad. Came right up at him again and spoke into his face.

"And don't you judge me, Daryl Dixon! Don't you look at me that way. Don't you _dare_."

He realized how little she was. A good foot shorter than him. He could see her collarbone poking out over the neckline of her white dress. She stared at him, defiant. He looked down at his shoes.

"I'm… I'm sorry… I just…"

He struggled for words, gestured in the air with frustration.

"I don't…"

Janie scooped the cat up in her arms and hugged her close. He could hear her purring as she nestled into her owner's chest. Janie looked at him with softer eyes.

"Don't worry 'bout it," she said, burying her face in the orange fur a moment, "I… I understand."

He exhaled. Looked to his crossbow, sitting by her laundry basket. It didn't look like it belonged there. While he was looking away, she stepped up closer to him, again.

"Besides," she said softly, "I'd think you'd be the first to understand why I'm here."

He looked at her, silent.

"I mean… I've watched you. I've watched you a lot. Comin' and goin' through those laurel trees. I _know_ you understand. Can see it in your face every day."

She stepped away from him again. Put down the cat, and picked up the laundry basket. Stepped lightly around his crossbow and turned to the house.

"I _know_ you know," she whispered—her voice getting real quiet as she looked down into the laundry basket, "You know it's hard."

She hopped up the back steps into the house. Her shoe glanced a bit of queen anne's lace springing up through a crack in the concrete, and the flowers bobbed back and forth as she paused to open the screen door. Mr. Pibb snaked around her ankles and wandered inside.

She perched the laundry basket on her hip as she turned around and gave him a last look. There was something sad in her eyes. All at once, the idea floated up in his mind that she might feel sorry for him.

"It's hard to leave when you love 'em so," she said.


	3. The Night Before

_I came to realization last night and switched the genre from "drama/horror" to "agnst/horror." This story isn't going to get any happier. The horror part will start in the next (and final) chapter. And will it ever._

_That is all. Please review so I know what you think!_

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><p><em>The Night Before:<em>

There was one more night before it happened. But as Daryl, Merle, and Billy walked into the old roadhouse together, none of them knew it.

On that last night, Daryl sat in one of the darker corners of the barroom, feet propped up on a chair. He had a shot of whiskey on the table. Spun it nervously in his fingers, round and round in circles. Crowds of people stood around in the smoky gloom, walking in and out of pools of lamplight spilling out from overhead. He recognized a lot of them. Didn't really know any. But they were the same old faces. Something about that was soothing, at some level.

_Wish You Were Here_ was blaring from the speakers, and the dull hum of conversation blurred together so the voices were indistinguishable from each other.

Merle and Billy were a few feet away, surrounded by their usual crowd. There were three girls with them Daryl hadn't seen before. One of them touched Merle's arm and laughed.

Daryl sat a little bit apart, and watched Billy steadily from the corner of his eye. He was chatting up a brunette in a cropped t-shirt-leaning over where she sat, propped up on one arm, languidly. Speaking quietly right up near her face.

He felt a rising resentment toward Billy. It was quickly replacing his general indifference. Cold anger was spreading out from deep in his gut. It clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes. His hand tightened on the glass, and he drank the shot. All while watching Billy with a steely gaze.

When he came over to the house earlier that evening, Billy was already half drunk. Said Janie was home sick after a tussle the day before. Said someone tried to grab her outside the truck stop. The one on the highway where she worked the lunch shift.

"Some crazy asshole, drunk out of his mind or somethin'," Billy said, "Just came right at her from behind a car in the back lot. Says she pushed him away and hightailed it outta there."

He took a swig from his flask. The one with the SS death's head engraved on it.

"Came home shakin' like a fucking leaf."

Billy said she was still pretty shook up, not feeling well, and very tired. She was home in bed. So of course Billy thought he should go out with his friends.

And, as he sometimes did, Merle thought that Daryl should go with them. Refused to take no for an answer. So Daryl grabbed the keys to their daddy's old truck and drove them out to the roadhouse to meet the rest of the crowd.

He didn't enjoy it. His mind kept wandering back to Janie. Yesterday, she'd waved to him from her driveway, when she went out to her car for work. She was wearing the black t-shirt with the truck stop logo on it, and one of Billy's flannels on open over that. He knew what she was covering with that shirt. What she didn't want anyone to see.

But he could tell she wasn't thinking about the bruise right then—she was looking over at him, across the yard. Smiling at him. Like she smiled at Billy that time with the cherries. A real smile.

"Mornin' Daryl!"

And at that, he had almost walked over there. Almost said something back. But she was rushing to leave, and he didn't really have the nerve. He nodded to her as she got in her old Honda Civic. And just like that, she drove away. That was just a few hours before she was attacked at the truck stop.

The world was full to overflowing with sick bastards.

He wanted to talk to her again. And the way she smiled and waved to him made him think she'd let him. He didn't like that he'd hurt her feelings at the washline. Made her upset. He wanted to fix that.

He might—if he kept his courage, that is—he might just go over there tomorrow, and see how she was doing. See if she was feeling better.

The hours passed languidly. They bought each other rounds. They talked. He played pool against himself at a nearby table. Made the shots quietly, watching the balls gliding over the felt in their mathematical precision. And he watched Billy. Billy playing with the brunette's hair, talking nonsense. Puffing up for her. Daryl finished a game, gathered the balls, and broke again. It was then he realized someone was standing at the table across from him.

One of the three girls. The other two were all over Merle and Billy at the other side of the barroom.

"Seen you standin' over here," she said. He looked at her a second, and back to the cue. He set up his shot.

She took one of the cues from its rack. Gave him a sidelong glance. Tossed her hair.

"Don't say much, do you?"

One swift motion with the cue, and the ball jumped forward, made a satisfying crack as it hit another. He watched the chain reaction. A smooth chain of events. Predictable and satisfying. Everything made sense on the felt.

She came over, and he looked up. She was running her hand along the cue. She leaned in. Whispered to him, softly, under her breath.

"Wanna play?" she asked.

Her hair was falling in the way of his shot.

"Not really," he said.

She scoffed. Rolled her eyes. He didn't notice.

Later he overheard her talking to Merle.

"What's with your brother? He some kinda queer?"

Merle laughed at that. Said something about trying to get blood out of a fucking stone.

* * *

><p>They went back to the house after closing. Merle only came out of his room once, full of energy, high on who knows what—asking him to think of at least five things that rhyme with "nigger." Seemed to think it was very, very important. He had one of the girls under his arm. She had a sheet pulled up over her bare chest.<p>

The other two were in the room with Billy.

And Daryl sat out on the porch, trying not to hear them carry on. The night air was cool on his face, but it didn't help. His every muscle was tense with white rage. He was so angry he thought he could knock Billy's skull in. There was a single light on, dimly, in the double wide. At one of the back windows. She was in there.

Billy was so goddamned stupid he couldn't wrap his head around it.

He stared at that single light, filtered through the vertical blinds, and the night sounds crowded all around him, blending with the uglier sounds from inside.

He stared for a long time, then buried his head in his hands. Sighed. He was very tired.

So he got up, walked back into the house. Let the door slam behind him. Went for Merle's stash. He knew where he hid it.

Daryl rarely used. Not out of moral superiority. Very early he'd learned the value of being sharp and aware of everything that went on in this house. But sometimes—sometimes he just had to quiet what was in his head. He rummaged through the bottles and bags. Found what he was looking for. Oxycontin. Spilled them out into his hand and swallowed them dry. Took as many as he guessed wouldn't kill him and climbed into bed, shoes and all. The idea of stripping down seemed impossibly difficult. He just wanted to burrow away somewhere silent and sleep. So he pulled the sheet over his head and hid from the world.

He drifted away. Numb. The sounds in the next room echoed and swam together. Consciousness left him, and he was in a warm, grey blur.

It was the last time he would ever sleep in his own bed.

* * *

><p><em>Please leave a comment! I want to get to know this fandom now that I've fallen head of heels for it<em>_. And another thing- I'm starting to think of writing more Walking Dead fic. If anyone has suggestions/requests for any subject, pairing, etc. they might like to see, I'm all ears. PM me!_


	4. That Afternoon

_Well, my friends, we have reached the end of this dark little fairy tale. This one gets a bit intense, so take that as fair warning as to content._

_I have been appropriately advised to give a more specific warning here-there is violence involving animals, which can be triggering. Keep this in mind if you choose to read the chapter._

_You know how you spin out ideas for stories and they just keep going and going? In my mind there's this alternate universe where Janie wasn't attacked at that truck stop, where the walkers never did rise, and Daryl worked up the courage to go talk to her that next day. Maybe instead of getting that motorcycle when he made his break for it, he got a sedan. So there'd be room for her, too._

_But that's a different story. This is a story about the walkers, and the truck stop, and one way I could see how Daryl had retreated so deeply into himself at the beginning of the series. If you're like me, you enjoy a music chaser to any story. Gregory Paul's rendition of the traditional ballad "Oh Death" was in large part the inspiration for this one. Look it up if you have a chance.  
><em>

_Please do review. And if you have any story requests or suggestions (happier subjects included) please do share. I'm keen to keep on writing in this wonderful, desolate, fascinating Walking Dead world._

* * *

><p><em>That Afternoon:<em>

The gunshot woke Daryl in an instant.

He bolted upright, eyes darting back and forth, listening intently. Nothing more. The report faded and there was nothing left but afternoon birdsong.

The light was long on the floor by his bed. He looked at the clock. 3:37. His mind was a flurry of confusion. He paused, assembled his thoughts.

Gunshot. There was a gunshot outside. Down the street. Down the street at the neighbors.

Janie.

All at once, before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet. Out of the house, over the porch railing and running towards the doublewide. Down the dirt road, kicking up dust, and across to the front door.

It was hanging wide open. Silence from inside.

A breeze caught up behind him and the windchimes starting to ring out on the porch. The sound took on that surreal quality normal things do when something is very, very wrong.

He stepped into the house, pushing the door open quietly. He moved forward carefully—silently, checking the room from the sides, like a hunter. Let that side of him take over. In the back of his mind, he regretted that he hadn't stopped for a weapon before leaving the house.

He slipped through the tidy kitchen, silent and empty. There was a daisy in a soda bottle on the window sill, over the sink.

Hugging the wall, he crept into the living room. And stopped there.

Billy. Sprawled on the couch, the .44 still in his slack hand. His blood splattered all over the back wall. A hole in his head. His eyes were wide open, and stared through Daryl where he stood.

Something in the kitchen made a scrabbling noise. Something fell. Shattering glass. He darted around. Mr. Pibb was in there. Knocked the daisy off its perch. His lips pressed together tightly and he gave the room another pass.

Mr. Pibb's bowl, on a mat by the fridge. It was empty. There were only a few crumbs. No one had fed her today.

_Janie_.

He stepped back into the living room, past Billy's body. There were fine droplets of his blood on the wall even past the couch. Billy was staring blankly in that way all dead things have. Looked completely different from what came before. A lot like a felled buck or a rabbit in a snare. An object now—not a living creature. He remembered Billy just a few hours ago. Laughing with the brunette. Playing with her hair. Taking her home. So different from what was lying there on the couch, its skin gone cold and pale in the few minutes that had passed since he pulled the trigger.

The cat snaked around Daryl's ankles as he moved on, deeper into the trailer. Down the hallway. He carefully opened the first door. An empty bathroom, impeccably clean. Blue towels folded neatly on the rack. Two toothbrushes in the holder by the sink.

The next seemed like a catch-all. Also empty. A dressform stood in the corner with something calico pinned to it. She was only partway through the dress. Some lace was half-tacked to the neckline, then spilled down the front, loose. In a neat pile, there were some flats of fabric folded on the table next to it. There were ducks and bears printed on them.

For the baby.

One more door, at the end of the hall. It was hanging partway open. Light flowed in through the edge onto the beige, tiled floor.

He pushed it open. Light spilled onto his face.

Little Janie Reed—now Janie Tucker. Lying on the bed, sheets stripped away. Wearing nothing but a white silk slip. Rolled on her side.

Little Janie Reed. Lying there, still and quiet.

Dead.

* * *

><p>Daryl was sitting in the doorway. He'd been there a long time.<p>

When he saw her, something drained out of him. He'd sank down there and just sat, watched her. Watched the light from her window making patterns on her face and arms. Watched those patterns caress the pale skin there, moving as the afternoon went on. Over the white silk of the slip. The swell of her stomach. Her still hands.

Thoughts crowded around him. Cherries in those hands, staining them red with juice. Those hands holding the seam of a white cotton sheet. Stroking Mr. Pibb's orange coat. Stroking Billy's hair.

He shook the thoughts away. Spoke out loud to the air.

"I'll get out," he said simply—resolutely. He looked over to her as if he was making her a promise.

"You didn't. But I'll do it. I'm gonna go. Today."

He stood up, walked up to the bed. Looked down at her.

"Won't ever come back."

It was then that he noticed the spot of blood on the silk slip. Right under her arm. Just a tiny droplet.

_What happened here?_

Gingerly, he reached out and touched her arm. The bruise had a greenish cast, now. But it was still there. He lifted her arm up, cold under his fingers. He didn't want to disturb her, but he had to understand how this happened.

Right there, on her side, near the swell of her breast.

An angry wound—torn flesh, scabbed over. His eyes narrowed.

A bite mark.

"What the fuck…" he whispered to himself, staring at that wound. Not an animal. Those were human teeth, no question.

Did that motherfucking asshole of a husband _bite_ her? Bite her and shoot himself in his goddamned head right after?

He wheeled around facing the empty room, that sense of unreality crushing in on all sides.

Daryl was never consciously aware of the speed of his raw intelligence. But very swiftly the pieces started to fall together for him. Each little observation. Everything people had said. The scene recreated itself in his mind.

No. Billy didn't bite her. He wasn't here. That wound was a few days old.

The truck stop. It was at the truck stop. That crazy person, probably half drunk out of his mind, Billy said. He'd done it. She pushed him away, ran. Came home. Probably didn't tell Billy she'd been bit-bit by the side of the breast by some kind of unbelievably sick bastard.

But that wasn't enough to kill her. The wound was healing well. She'd been sick with something. Billy said she was home sick. All alone.

Her robe was in a pile on the floor. He could see everything in his mind as if he'd been there. She'd ripped it off herself. She'd torn away the sheets. She'd been sweating. Died of some kind of fever.

Some strands of hair were lying across her face. Stuck there by the dried sweat. Yes. That's what happened.

Billy found her. Left Merle's room sometime in the afternoon. The bar girls were probably long gone by that point. He'd sauntered on home. Found Janie here.

Daryl looked towards the door, saw one of Billy's hands dangling over the arm of the sofa. A small stream of blood had dried on it.

Billy saw what happened. Couldn't live with it. That dried blood on that cold hand was the only way Billy could express his love.

Daryl turned back to Janie. Reached out and stroked the hair away from her pale face.

Her eyes fluttered open.

* * *

><p>Daryl yanked his hand back with a gasp. Backed away a few feet, shocked. He tried to think of something to say. Mortified about what she'd think about him standing there over her, uninvited, in her goddamned <em>bedroom<em>.

Nothing made sense. He'd been absolutely _certain_ she was dead.

"Janie," he said.

She blinked. Looked around the room slowly.

She lifted herself up on the bed, falteringly. Like her muscles didn't work quite right.

"Janie…?"

She looked up at him. Her eyes were clouded. She was pale as death. She placed her feet on the floor awkwardly, one at a time.

"Good _God_, Janie… "

Something was very wrong with her. He felt panic rising in his stomach.

He grabbed her robe pushed it towards her. She didn't take it.

"Come on, girl. Lemme take you to the hospital."

Mr. Pibb jumped up from her perch, ran towards her owner. Mewed once.

Janie looked down. Reached for her.

When she picked her up, it was by the front shoulders. Awkward. The cat whimpered a protest as her spine stretched out and her legs flailed.

Then Janie bit into Mr. Pibb's neck.

Daryl couldn't speak. Frozen in place, he watched the cat struggle. Clawing at Janie's face, raking long scratches there. Janie didn't seem to notice. Went in for another bite.

He felt his throat tighten. He backed up another step.

"What… what the _fuck_?"

With that, Janie turned her attention towards him.

* * *

><p>She dropped the cat. It made its best effort to scrabble away into the living room. She stepped near him. A guttural sound starting scraping out of her throat. Her arms stretched out as if she wanted to pull him in.<p>

She closed the space, snapped at him with bloody teeth. The cat's blood coated her slip down the front.

Without thinking, he pushed her away by the shoulders.

She stepped forward again. He pushed her again. Backed up through the small hallway. She kept up with him, and they were in the living room.

She came at him, snarling. He pushed her again.

"Janie…" he said helplessly. Pleading with her for this not to be happening.

She lunged. She was all over him, snapping, trying to bite him. Instinct took over his mind, and he somehow knew he absolutely couldn't let her get close enough to do it.

Everything narrowed and concentrated down to the moment. Time slowed down. She grabbed and he deflected. Held her away from him. She was small, so he could do it.

But she was unstoppable. Tenacious. She wasn't going to give up. Fear lit up in his body along every nerve, and all of his thoughts compressed together into one voice. Those thoughts—echoing out from the back of his mind—spoke in the voice of his brother.

_She means to kill you, bro._

He backed up as she pressed forward, and he stumbled on something. Billy's leg. All at once, without consciously choosing to do it, he reached blindly for Billy's .44. She leaned over him. He held her off with one hand. She pressed into him unbendingly.

It might have been his hunting skills that made him do it—skills that had become so deeply ingrained they were like breath and heartbeat. Or the whipcord readiness forged by a childhood lived in constant fear. Whatever it was, it made him grab that gun and throw her backwards. It made him aim at center mass, and fire right into her chest.

The report echoed out as the force tossed her down.

Silence covered the house again.

"Oh shit…" he whispered, leaning forward. She was lying there on the ground.

"Oh Christ… oh _fuck_…"

Cold horror gripped his stomach as he realized what he'd done. A hand went to his temple automatically. Sweat dripped down his face.

He went to check her pulse. Maybe… but he knew better. He knew a kill shot. He'd been trained to it every day of his life.

He crouched down next to her. She was coated in Mr. Pibb's blood.

She grabbed his arm, yanked hard, and pulled him towards her. He cried out, barely managing to wrench free at the last second. And she was on him again. Lunged forward as he tried to stand up. With her weight on him and the floor wet with the cat's blood, he slipped. Came down hard on the tile, hitting his head.

Stars flashed behind his eyes as she tried to push in. Blood or spit dripped into his face and he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as he held her back. He turned his head, strained for the gun. Reached out in the vague direction he'd thought it would have fallen and hoped he was right.

She was on top of him fully, now.

Where was that gun?

He pushed her chest back with one hand as she grabbed at his arm, growling from the back of her throat.

"Janie…" he murmured. In that moment, his hand touched the cool metal of the barrel.

He rolled, gun in hand. She grabbed at it and a round went off into the ceiling. He tried to rise and she pushed him down again, slipping in the blood.

She was over him, leaning down. He aimed the gun upwards. Her face was right next to his, and he turned the gun to it as best he could. She pressed onto it. All at once, the barrel was in her mouth.

He felt her lips make contact with his fingers when he pulled the trigger. She slumped down on top of him, and he collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air.

He rolled her off with shaking hands.

As he lay on her living room floor, trying to breathe, he heard a brown thrasher singing on the porch outside.

* * *

><p>He walked back to the house at the dead end. His brother was on the porch.<p>

"Hey bro," Merle said, looking him up and down. Daryl was splattered with blood.

"What's this?" Merle asked, gesturing at Daryl's body, "You on the rag or somethin'?"

Daryl just stood next to him, silent. He couldn't speak.

"Little brother…"

Merle trailed off. Watched Daryl a moment. But then he clapped him on the arm.

"Stand and fucking deliver, Bro. What in the name of hell is goin' on?"

At Merle's touch, Daryl started to come back to himself. He looked at his brother. Merle's tone was still light, but he could tell, looking into his face, that he was worried.

"Daryl," he said, and leaned forward.

"I heard shots."

Daryl turned away from him. Leaned on the porch railing. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

Down the road. Two… three… four shapes. People, walking stiffly towards them. Walking like Janie had walked. As if they'd heard the shots and were heading for the sound.

"Merle."

His brother's name caught in his throat. He coughed. Nodded towards the cluster of moving shapes, heading for them.

"Merle… look."

He brother turned, and they watched those lumbering figures heading towards them—slow and steady in the springtime sunlight.


End file.
